


Not in the Swing of Things (Yet)

by honey_deux



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prison, I'm so sorry, M/M, Slow Burn, discontinued, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-23 13:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12508040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_deux/pseuds/honey_deux
Summary: “Javert!” Grantaire greets cheerfully. Javert does not look at all cheerful, and neither does the pretty blonde kid whose wrists are clamped in the guard’s grip.“Fuck, who the hell pissed in your coffee today?”(Otherwise known as the prison AU people actually,,surprisingly,,asked for. In which Grantaire gets a new cellmate, who happens to look like he's dropped straight from above.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be: swearing, underage drinking, underage drug use, violence, and basically all that other stuff people to go juvie for. You have been warned!
> 
> Title is from Still Sane by Lorde.

Grantaire’s been in the Musain Juvenile Detention Center twice in five and a half months.

During that time, he’s learned a lot of things: how to hang a towel in a way that it doesn’t fall onto the moldy shower floor, how little the teachers care if you skip classes, and how to expertly piss off the prison officers. All in all, Grantaire has properly learned how to be a little shit.

He’s fallen into a routine : wake up, watch as the day flies past him in a slow, hazy blur, count the time gone by. Three hours since lunch. Four days since he had any form of intoxication. Two weeks since his last roommate had been moved to Solitary Confinement. Five and a half months since he got thrown in this place.

 

He’s got to two hours since he started counting; he’s still unaware of the time even so, when a chorus of heavy footsteps sounds down the corridor. It’s a change of routine that he accepts graciously.

“Morning, Javert!” Grantaire greets, a cheery smile cut into his face. His back is slouched against the wall when the footsteps stop at his door. Javert does not look at all cheerful — his brows pinched together, his glare not doing anything to lessen the darkness beneath his eyes, and neither does the kid whose wrists are clamped tightly in the officer’s grip. “Sir,” Grantaire corrects, which doesn’t seem to improve Javert’s mood much.

“It’s five p.m.,” the kid supplies with a voice that could move mountains and Grantaire’s eyes fix involuntarily on its source. His eyes are narrowed, gaze sweeping over the dimly lit room, separated from the rest of the center by a row of bars. He’s tall, significantly taller than Grantaire, his blond hair falling in waves that almost reach his shoulders, and his eyes— Grantaire has to look away, as if afraid he’ll be blinded by the light shining from those blue irises. A thing he does catch though, is that Blond Guy somehow manages to make beige juvie center jumpsuits look like a fashion statement.

“Uh.” He scrambles for something to say. “Thanks.” He curses his brain. “And see, I’d know that if they gave us any rights in this goddamn place.” Grantaire really can’t stop talking. It earns a snarl from Javert, at least, and he shuts himself up to shoot the officer a delighted grin.

“You’ve got the right to remain the fuck silent, kid. You’ve got a clock on your wall, use it,” Javert says, keys jangling as he unlocks the door and swings it open. Grantaire shrugs and places his hands on his hips, mostly because the prison scrubs don’t have pockets but also because his palms are getting sweatier every second.

He does shut up though, and Javert shoves Blond Guy in his cell and locks it, marching away with more unnecessary force than seems physically possible. Grantaire watches him go, hears his loud footsteps echo along the corridor, suddenly not sure where exactly to put his arms. He keeps his gaze determinedly on the bars as he runs a hand through his messy dark curls.

Blond Guy says nothing, but Grantaire feels his stormy blue gaze fixed on him and when he looks back (he tried not to do that for fear that his eyes would be glued to that halo forever), Blond Guy has flattened himself against the wall, his brows pinched and his lips turned up in irritation.  The dim fluorescent lighting accentuates the halo around Blond Guy’s head. He looks unnaturally bright, his blond hair and blue eyes out of place among the dull gray walls. Grantaire wants to kick himself for thinking that he should deserve more than a hard bunk bed, a tiny desk and a moldy bathroom shared by the entire floor of kids.

He has about a thousand questions swimming in his head, like “How the fuck does someone like you get into juvie?” or “What’s the deal with your blinding attractiveness?” Hell, “What’s your name?” would fill the silence just as well. And because Grantaire’s mouth is a gem, he blurts,

“Fuck, who the hell pissed in your coffee today?”

Which is, very obviously, the wrong thing to say because the blond dude decides to look at him like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Shit,” Grantaire amends. “I mean.” Half of him wants to piss himself in embarrassment and the other half thinks _this is going to be fun_. “I’m Grantaire?”

“Enjolras,” the blond kid replies stiffly, and turns his head towards the cell door. It’s a pretty clear indication that the conversation is over. Grantaire follows his gaze, looking across the bars at the kids in the cell opposite them. He recognizes them as Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both of them in for opposing the government in some form or another. Courfeyrac catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow as if to say,  _ who’s the new kid? _ Grantaire shrugs in response, _ don’t ask me, man, _ and settles himself on the lower bunk of the bed, trying to get accustomed to the fact that he has a new cellmate. That new cellmate just so happens to be extremely attractive, and happens to make him feel like he doesn't want to fuck everything up. It's a new feeling, and Grantaire still has mixed thoughts about it.

“What did you even do, dude?” he asks. Enjolras stares at him incredulously. “Are you even supposed to be asking me that?” Grantaire thinks it’s going to be really hard making small talk when all Enjolras seems capable of is judging anything that comes out of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Yeah, yeah— I mean,” he says, “how the fuck does a person like you get into a place like this?”

“You do realize how fucked up the government is, right?”

“I make it a point not to get involved in politics.”

Enjolras' eyes narrow, and what was once a neutral expression erupts into a true storm. “They arrest people just for speaking their mind, like what the hell is freedom of speech? This government is so goddamn scared they’ll lose their position of power they’ve just started eliminating anyone that challenges it.”

Grantaire tunes out at “arrest”, but from what he can tell Enjolras is another riot kid. There are about a metric fuckton of those in the Musain, so his point stands.

 “...definitely needs to be done— you’re not listening, are you.” Enjolras says it more like a statement than a question, and Grantaire has the mind to feel guilty. Just a bit, though.

“Yeah, no,” he replies in all honesty, “but I can introduce you to a bunch of people who will.” His gaze flashes back to the cell opposite them, where Courfeyrac and Combeferre are engaged in some heated debate. Enjolras' face visibly brightens, which must be a good sign.

“It’s your guess as much as mine, but I’m betting they’re in for rioting, too,” Grantaire says and Enjolras looks triumphant; it’s a good look for him. Grantaire’s got a reputation for making his cellmates hate him to the point of physical violence, and if Enjolras didn’t look like he’d just fallen from the sun in a blaze of righteous glory, Grantaire might’ve kept it.

“So what do you do?” Enjolras asks.

“What?”

“This.” Enjolras waves his arms a little, gesturing at the entirety of the room. Grantaire feels embarrassed on behalf of the room for its dirt-bare furnishing. “You just— sit around all day?”

“Uh, that’s kind of how jail works, dude,” he says. “We have a poor excuse for school every day if that’s what you’re after.” Enjolras gives him an incredulous look again, opens his mouth as if to say something then closes it. Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that he’ll have to live with this guy until either of them gets out. He isn’t even going to ask why Enjolras hasn’t been bailed out yet when he looks so stunning, which is a courtesy. From what Grantaire can tell, Enjolras is the very poster child of social justice. A righteous aura practically radiates off him. He’s got all this in five minutes.

 

Enjolras stays quiet for the next hour, occasionally glaring intensely out the bars of the cell at anyone who passes, otherwise probably formulating plans in his head on how to start a revolution from inside a juvenile detention center. Meanwhile, Grantaire pretends to nap, somewhat grateful for the silence until a siren shrieks, and the cell doors swing open. Had Grantaire not been pretending to be asleep, he might have enjoyed being able to see Enjolras jump out of his skin at the high-pitched, deafening sound.

“Dinner, then showers,” Grantaire informs him from the bottom bunk of the bed, even though it’s more of a wooden plank.

“Seriously?” Enjolras says. “Showers after dinner?”

Grantaire snorts. “Well, the showers are normally cold as fuck, and as far as I know, it only inhibits your digestion if you’re showering in hot water.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. And then proceeds to do absolutely nothing, which is when Grantaire realizes he probably has no idea how this works. He suppresses his urge to jump up, instead sitting up coolly with a sigh. “Alright, so I usually skip — ”

“You skip showers?”

“And dinner,” Grantaire adds. “I acknowledge my inner disgusting animal. Anyways, since you probably need someone to show you the ropes, I’ll be your humble guide.” He flashes a smile and Enjolras is still looking at him, his expression one of judgmental disbelief, which Grantaire thinks is now a default face setting when talking to him. Enjolras does, though, cross the room towards the open door expectantly, folding his arms over his chest.

“See, I’m a good guy,” Grantaire says with a smile, peeling himself off the lower bunk. “Be glad you have someone experienced to show you around, man.” Enjolras responds with an eye roll, but Grantaire refuses to believe he merely imagined the small smile that crosses his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire suppresses a laugh as he thinks Enjolras might really be trying to plan a revolution from inside a juvenile detention center.

“It is so— _goddamn_ loud, remind me why I volunteered to help you again?”

 

Past the bars of the cell, they’re attacked by a swarm of inmates, ages ranging from as young as eight to eighteen; a tide that pushes them forwards relentlessly. Because of the torrential flow of bodies down the cramped hallway, Grantaire has to resort to grabbing Enjolras’ wrist lest they get separated. It isn’t exactly an ideal situation, and Grantaire could do without his own crazy sweat glands.

Enjolras frowns and narrows his eyes, his eyebrows pinched together. “You tell me. I don’t need your help anyway, I can take care of myself. I’m not a child.”

 “Oh, I don’t doubt you can take care of yourself,” Grantaire says, and adds, just to be difficult, “I’m just here to make sure you do so without breaking your bones.” He’s only half-joking, because he remembers his first day and the searing pain that exploded through his arm, remembers ugly grins etched into the faces of his attackers.

Enjolras doesn’t respond but gives Grantaire a puzzled look, which is when Grantaire realizes his grip has turned vice-like on Enjolras’ wrist. Hastily, he lets go and instead motions with his head to keep up, to which Enjolras follows with what’s probably relief.

 

They make their way up flights of stairs (Grantaire swears these were easier to climb before), and the merciless tide ebbs to a trickle as they reach the cafeteria, a large open space dotted by inmates in beige slacks and the occasional navy blue uniform of the prison officer. There are long, rectangular wooden tables that furnish the room in neat rows, and Grantaire catches sight of Courfeyrac— he’s not easy to miss, with his smile so bright it could light up the entire cafeteria.

 “Hey,” Grantaire says to Enjolras, waving a hand in Courfeyrac’s general direction. “See the dude with brown hair over there? Smiles too much? Looks like an actual ray of sunshine?” He could afford to be more descriptive, but Enjolras seems to get it, nodding slowly as doubt passes over his features. Grantaire sighs. “Courf’s a good person, I promise. We’re sitting over there, with the good… _est_ people I know.”

If Enjolras doubts Grantaire’s capabilities of making friends with decent people, he doesn’t voice it, and they receive their food without a word to each other.

Courfeyrac’s smile gets impossibly wider when he spots Grantaire and Enjolras with their trays in hand as they make their way over to the table— nearly empty for now, with only Courfeyrac sporting a Styrofoam cup of mashed potatoes.

 “R!” he says, “haven’t seen you here in a while. Who’s the mistake?” Enjolras frowns at “mistake”, (See, Grantaire isn't the only one who thinks Enjolras is far too good for a shitty place like this) opening his mouth to protest but Grantaire cuts him off.

 “Hey Courf,” he says with a grin, eyeing the generous helping of mashed potatoes in Courfeyrac’s cup. “You’re lucky the lunch lady likes you, that’s pretty much the only edible thing in this goddamn place. You should’ve seen this guy’s scandalized face when he saw what kind of shit we eat here.” Grantaire smirks and gives a jerk of his head towards Enjolras, who has returned to staring distastefully at the “meat” on his plate.

 “Hey, Hucheloup’s cooking isn’t _that_ bad, don’t hurt her feelings,” Courfeyrac replies and turns to focus his smile on Enjolras. “Hey, blond, you wanna put your tray on the table and sit down like a normal person? You too, Grantaire. And am I going to be introduced, or what?”

Enjolras clears his throat as they sit down, extending his hand across the table. “I’m Enjolras,” he says, and Courfeyrac’s smile takes on a hint of amusement. “Courfeyrac,” he responds, “how’s your first day been, considering you’ve gotta put up with this guy? I mean, I’m surprised you haven’t punched him yet.” Enjolras blinks, taken aback. “What?”

 “They know me here as the cellmate punching bag,” Grantaire says with a wry smile, a laugh bubbling in his chest as Enjolras’ features contract with confusion. “I piss people off.”

 “We talking about Grantaire and his cellmates?” rings a female voice behind them and Grantaire looks back, a wide smile blooming on his face as Enjolras jumps. “’Ponine!” Grantaire greets, kicking back his chair and spreading his arms wide. Eponine returns him a kiss on the forehead and sets her tray down beside him, eyeing his. “You gonna eat that?” she comments, and Grantaire wrinkles his nose as he pushes the tray closer to her. “Jesus, I don’t get how you manage to digest that stuff,” he says, and Eponine shrugs with a content smile as she steals his cup of mashed potatoes. He catches Enjolras’ glance towards her, an eyebrow raised minutely as he takes in her dyed hair and nails painted black. Grantaire doesn’t blame him, he didn’t think that was allowed in this place either.

 

Slowly, the table fills with the rest of the group who Enjolras is introduced to as “the only cellmate who hasn’t punched Grantaire on his first day”. Eponine snorts and says she doubts noodle arms can even throw a proper punch. Enjolras looks like he’s about to punch her himself, but refuses to demonstrate. There’s Combeferre, who clicks with Enjolras immediately as they begin a heated political discussion as soon as his tray hits the table, no surprise there. Feuilly, who watches Enjolras with a gaze of admiration and in turn receives the same from the blond when it’s his turn to speak. Bahorel, who fist bumps everyone at the table including Enjolras, who doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable about it at all. There’s Musichetta, who gives the news that her two boyfriends are stuck in the medical ward because Bossuet got jumped yet again and Joly insisted on being there to treat him.

 “And then there’s those two,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing over to Marius Pontmercy and Cosette Fauchelevent, watching each other with gazes that made any cynic about love rethink all their life choices. “Marius and Cosette, the group’s star-crossed lovers.” Cosette glances over and smiles pleasantly. “Fuck with Marius and you’ll have me to answer to,” she says, her voice sweet and clear as bells with an undercurrent of a real threat. Now, Grantaire’s no expert, but from what he gathers, Cosette was sent to juvie because of more than just her criminal good looks.

 “Has anyone seen Jehan, by the way?” Musichetta asks as Grantaire stabs at his meatloaf with a plastic spork. “Our resident poet,” he explains to Enjolras, who’s gotten better at hiding his confusion and irritation at not knowing what’s going on, but Grantaire can still feel him tense beside him at every unfamiliar name. Courfeyrac’s brows knit together and he frowns in disapproval. “Think he’s with Montparnasse again,” he says lowly, and Combeferre puts a hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

 “Montparnasse has been sent to Solitary more times than we can count,” Combeferre explains, “and he’s also…” His voice trails off as he catches Grantaire’s eye, as if seeking permission and Grantaire shrugs, _do your worst, dude._ “He was Grantaire’s cellmate a while back,” Combeferre continues. Enjolras freezes in alarm. “So that means Jehan is in danger?” he asks, his voice tinged with worry and half of Grantaire wants to _swoon_ , at how compassionate he can be for someone he’s never even met before. The other more sensible half tells himself to shut the fuck up.

 “Nah.” This time it’s Eponine who interrupts, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “’Parnasse is cool with Jehan. He’s got some list of people he’d never lay a harmful finger on and Jehan’s pretty high on that list.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, disapproval still evident in his slumped posture.

 “Talking about me?” chirps a voice behind them, slender hands coming to rest on the table between Grantaire and Enjolras. Jehan flashes a smile at Enjolras, who looks visibly startled at the interruption. “Nice to meet you! I’m Jehan Prouvaire,” he says and Enjolras offers him a nod. “And R! I haven’t seen you at the dinner table for a while!”

Grantaire snorts. “Yeah, because I’m always just so eager to choke myself with sandpaper meatloaf,” he says. Jehan laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder before going to sit at an empty space next to Musichetta. “Anyways, ‘Parnasse isn’t even that bad, guys,” he continues, his lips upturned in a little bit of a pout. “Give him a chance!” Courfeyrac sighs at this, his eyes finding Grantaire’s. “He left Grantaire in the medical ward for a week,” he says bitterly and Grantaire’s heart jumps a little too far into his throat at this. Enjolras turns and looks at him with alarm, concern swimming in his clear blue gaze. “He what?”

 “It’s no big deal, guys,” Grantaire says even though his voice sounds foreign to him and it’s having a hard time making it past his throat. “We’re cool.”

 “He provides,” Eponine adds. She must sense Grantaire’s unease, bless her. “That’s already more than we give him credit for.” And just like that, the conversation is over, to Grantaire’s relief. Jehan proceeds to share his newest poem on the juvie center food, and Combeferre continues his debate with Enjolras on who-knows-what. Eponine settles a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and gives him a look that seems harsh, but he’s known Eponine since even before they were thrown in here and Grantaire knows that’s her look for concern. He shrugs and assures her he’s fine, but he feels Enjolras’ electric gaze on the back of his neck and it does little to help, as he shovels what’s left on his tray into his mouth in an attempt to shut himself up.

Enjolras’ eyes leave him to focus on the others at the table, and Grantaire watches silently as eloquent phrases tumble out of his lips and his eyes _shine_ and every now and then a smile will grace Enjolras’ lips and Grantaire tries to suppress the jealousy bubbling in his gut, at how easily Enjolras sheds his tense shell when he’s with _them,_ when the most he’ll utter is a few sentences whenever they speak. Grantaire supposes it’s his fault.

 

The rest of dinner passes by quickly, and the group parts with smiles and laughter and it’s the most _alive_ Grantaire’s seen them for a while; mealtimes used to pass without a word shared with the entire group. It was mostly conversations between pairs that happened to sit at the same table. Grantaire and Eponine, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel, et cetera. Enjolras brings them together, Grantaire observes, inspires ideas in them and encourages them to share it and Grantaire suppresses a laugh as he thinks Enjolras might really be trying to plan a revolution from inside a juvenile detention center.

Grantaire mock-salutes when Enjolras turns to meet him after a cheerful parting with his newfound friends. He feels a pang of bitterness at the words, mostly because Enjolras hardly considers Grantaire his friend when he gets along so well with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. It may not count for much, but Grantaire’s sure he’s the first person Enjolras talked to besides the prison officer.

 “Showers?” Enjolras asks, his lips curled into a frown, so very different from the eyes-blazing passionate smile he wore earlier.

 “Yeah,” Grantaire replies, a wry smile creeping up onto his face. “First, we gotta go back to the room, pick up our stuff, drop off our dignity and then we hit the mold pits.” He laughs a little at himself, but Enjolras is sporting a mortified expression, his brows furrowed even further.

 “Okay. It’s not _that_ bad. But I skip it for a reason,” Grantaire tries to reassure him, although he has to admit, he is getting a kick out of Enjolras’ face, his blue eyes wide enough to drink from. “You’ve got your shower stuff, right?” he asks as they make their way out of the cafeteria and towards the corridors of the cells.

 “My what?”

 “Your—” Grantaire freezes, whirling around to face the blond and this time it’s his turn to look horrified. Oh _God._ Of course commissary hasn’t delivered yet. “The incompetent asshole officers didn’t give it to you?”

 “Apparently not,” Enjolras grumbles, not looking any happier about the situation than Grantaire does.

 “Alrighty.” Grantaire inhales deeply, and exhales as a sigh. “We’ll go ask Courf and ‘Ferre, see if they have any extra stuff. If not— do you have any cash?”

 “No.”

 “Yeah. Okay.” Alright. So buying shit from Montparnasse is a no, too. Grantaire can deal with that. He wasn’t crazy about seeing the raven-haired motherfucker anytime soon anyway. He turns back around and walks hastily to their cell, only for his hope to crumble when he sees that Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s cell is empty.

 “Fuck!” he says out loud. “They must’ve fucking rushed there so they could steal all the warm water, those _goddamn_ — What a fucking cliché.” He sighs, stopping himself. There’s another alternative, though Enjolras wouldn’t like it. Actually, there are plenty of alternatives, that Grantaire doesn’t like himself. “Do you just wanna skip?”

 “No,” Enjolras says, determined. “We’ll figure something out.”

 “Dude, it’s just rinsing your junk under cold water for five minutes,” Grantaire drawls, even though he’s twisting the locker combination anyway. He eyes the meager belongings in the locker, provided by the center: a toothbrush, a single towel, a bar of soap, shaving cream, a pair of extra clothes. One pair of extra clothes, which means it looks like Grantaire’s going to be sleeping in the same underwear for the fifth day in a row. He decides not to tell Enjolras that, though. “Okay,” he says slowly, gathering them into his arms. “Clothing and soap are yours, I keep the towel.”

 “Wait, that means you don’t have—”

 “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Grantaire replies dryly, “besides, you look like you couldn’t stand a day without at least one fresh pair of pants.” Enjolras responds with a glare. “Look, I don’t know what your impression of me is, but I am more than capable of living the same lifestyle as you.” To which Grantaire has to laugh, because Enjolras hardly knows what kind of lifestyle he leads. If he knew, he thinks, he’d never want to talk to Grantaire again.

 “What’s so funny?” Enjolras snaps.

 “Nothing,” Grantaire says with a weak smile. “Okay. I believe you. Then I’ll take the clothes. You can have the soap and towel.” The look Enjolras gives him is less severe, but his eyes are still narrowed as he says, “Why are you so insistent on giving me more than you get?” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

 “Because it’s either I get more than you, or vice versa. Three is an odd number.” Enjolras scoffs. “ _And,”_ Grantaire continues. “This lifestyle of mine? It takes getting used to. You don’t adopt it like magic; enjoy the remnants you have of outside life while you can.” He instantly regrets the words that come out of his mouth though, because he can sense it. The _question,_ looming on the tip of Enjolras’ tongue and _no fuck no no no no_ —

 “How long have you been here, then?” There it is. It’s an innocent question, but _How did you get here?_ will be next and Grantaire is _not ready_ to answer that, not ready to let his secrets spill out of him like an overflowing sink to this golden-haired boy who’s invaded his life.

 “Few months,” he says, turning his back towards Enjolras and walking towards the corridor so he can’t see the darkness that dances below Grantaire’s eyelids. “Let’s go, then.” Enjolras’ expression is still pinched, but he follows anyway, to Grantaire’s relief. It’s not like it’s a secret how long he’s been here; Eponine knows, and Combeferre must have figured it out somehow. But when the question comes, _Why_ —

— _blue and red lights that flash around him blend together into a haze of purple figures blur past him and towards him and he hears them shout but it doesn’t register he feels like he’s underwater his limbs are slow his eyelids heavy and one moment he’s standing and the next he’s_ —

 “Grantaire?” says a voice behind him and it jolts him back to reality. _He’s in the Musain. Enjolras is behind him. They’re going for showers._ Grantaire must look pretty shell-shocked, because Enjolras is wearing an expression that he’s never seen before: concern. “Are you alright?”

Enjolras is _concerned_. The world must be coming to an end, Grantaire thinks and suppresses a bitter laugh. Instead, he plasters a grin on his face and raises a finger to point to a corner of the room. “Yeah. Peachy. Your dignity goes there, by the way. You can retrieve it after showers.” Enjolras snorts and rolls his eyes, and Grantaire hopes they can return to their routine so far of _not caring._ It doesn’t stop him from noticing the side glances he gets from the blond-haired boy on the way to the shower rooms, though.

 

Showering itself isn’t a problem, Grantaire’s used to the lack of both hot water and a clean place to stand. He isn’t bothered by the cold water that threatens to freeze every part of him that it touches, and when he turns off the tap he feels relatively clean, or cleaner than he has in a week. Save for his feet, but there is not a day that will pass where his or anyone’s feet is remotely clean. It probably makes him a shitty person, but Grantaire laughs to himself thinking about how Enjolras must be handling this. He grimaces, hoping the other boy hasn’t dropped his towel on the disgusting ground yet.

The stream of water shuts off without warning, and Grantaire hears many of the other inmates groaning and swearing in frustration. He slips out of the stall and makes a beeline for the pile of clean clothes that he left on the bench, because god knows how many other kids will be jumping at a chance to steal un-soiled pants. Grantaire doesn’t particularly have any more fucks to give about changing in front of other people, but he guesses Enjolras does when he emerges from the stall, towel wrapped around his waist, appearing mortified. Grantaire considers himself lucky that he has at least pants on.

 “Aren’t you glad you took my towel?” he quips, focusing a determined gaze on the clothes before him, trying not to look at Enjolras’ bare chest or his hair, curls dripping with water but still golden nonetheless.

 “The hooks on the door don’t work,” Enjolras mutters.

 “Oh my _God_ don’t tell me you fucking dropped it,” Grantaire says, pulling on his shirt and turning to Enjolras with an exasperated look. Enjolras, who still hasn’t moved to put on clothes, which makes Grantaire immediately avert his eyes. “Dude. Do you want to maybe be clothed?” At this point, only a few other kids remain in the shower room, those who had just finished jerking off, or those struggling with privacy or insecurity issues.

 “How do you do this every day?” Enjolras hisses, and it seems he hasn’t followed Grantaire’s advice about leaving his dignity behind.

 “That’s the thing: I don’t,” Grantaire says and Enjolras lets out a frustrated sound. “It’s okay, dude, I won’t look. Or you can go into the shower stall and change, if that floats your boat.” With his eyes trained on the bench in front of him, Grantaire can practically feel Enjolras shudder beside him. He hears a muttered, “Fine”, and a shuffling of fabric that lets him breathe a silent sigh of relief. Grantaire picks up the pile of his own rumpled clothes and has the heart to feel the slightest bit bad that Enjolras is left wearing the same uniform that he’d entered with. But Grantaire is not that much of a selfless human being, so he lets Enjolras put on his old clothes, turning around when he’s done. Enjolras’ hair is still wet, which is more of a distraction than it should be.

 “Can we go?”

 “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Enjolras protests.

Grantaire snorts in response. “Yeah, and leave you to wander the halls alone? You know you can get put into Solitary for getting caught after curfew, right?” Enjolras rolls his eyes.

 “I can find the way back myself,” he says, slinging the towel over his shoulder and walking past Grantaire out into the corridor. He’s even re-wrapped the soap and clutches it in one hand as he marches away. Grantaire follows, just for amusement because it took him at least three days to get used to the layout of the prison. Then again, he’d had trouble reading simple signs at the time, too.

 

 “I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t look like being able to find the way back yourself,” he finds himself saying with a shit-eating grin when Enjolras chooses the wrong hallway to walk down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes this is late!! and super short, again. i apologize!!

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone, it's 2018,  
> thank you so much so everyone who read through whatever i've posted, but after almost a year i've decided i'm no longer going to be continuing this story.   
> i had a lot of plans for this au when it first started out, but those plans also included really heavy themes that i've realized i'm too inexperienced and uncomfortable with to really write well. so,  
> thank you again for reading! there will be more les mis content (hopefully) but this is it for the prison au. feel free to continue or use this au however you like!  
> cheers, :-)


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